by Robin Moore
"We'll take him," Jimmy O'Brien responded as he and Ripa whisked past in their car.
Sonny got out. Barbier and Mouren had walked a couple of dozen yards back along 24th Street and gone into a dingy bar on the north side of the street.
The detective walked down the opposite sidewalk. He stopped by a ramshackled old grocery store, still open, across from the bar whose only identification was a red neon BAR over the entrance. The windows of the place were opaque, so he couldn't tell what the Frogs were doing — having a drink after their prolonged excursion in Patsy's hands, relieving themselves or telephoning someone. Wondering suddenly what his partner Egan was doing with the other Frog, Jehan, Sonny went into the grocery. The smell was Italian, like home. He picked out a vanilla cupcake and asked for a Coke. Then he went to the store window and, tearing the cellophane wrapping off the cake, focused upon the door under BAR.
He'd had only one bite out of the cupcake and a gulp of Coke when the two Frenchmen came out. They walked to the corner of First Avenue. Sonny withdrew further into the store. The men seemed to be looking down First. Barbier raised an arm, and presently a taxi stopped alongside them. Sonny put the soda and cake down and dashed outside. Waving to Fitz to pick him up, he ran down to the corner to watch the cab as it continued north on First Avenue.
Barking directions into the radio mike as Fitz drove, Sonny traced the route of the Frogs' cab, across town to the West Side, up Eighth Avenue to the interstate Port Authority Bus Terminal at 41st Street.
As they went, Fitz told him that O'Brien was tailing Patsy downtown toward his Lower East Side haunts.
Barbier and Mouren scrambled from their taxi into the bus terminal. Grimly aware that the huge, bustling pavilion, a full block square with countless exits, had often been exploited as an escape hatch by individuals fleeing detection, Sonny and Fitz jolted to a stop at a hack stand and dashed after the Frenchmen. They could only pray that other cars were now arriving in the vicinity. The main concourse of the terminal was crowded by orderly turmoil of Friday night stay-outs herding this way and that for late buses to New Jersey. Sonny spied Barbier and Mouren groping and dodging toward an exit on 40th Street.
Swivelling to Fitz, he pointed to them and shouted, "Get the car!" and without a break in his stride he pushed his way through the flow of commuters after the two Frogs. But before Sonny burst onto the sidewalk on 40th Street, Barbier and Mouren had clambered into another taxi and shot off east.
Swearing breathlessly, Sonny ran to the corner of Eighth Avenue, where Fitz was having trouble backing the car down the one-way avenue against traffic.
Trembling with anger and excitement, Sonny jumped out onto the street, waving his arms, trying to stay oncoming vehicles so that Fitz would have a chance to swing around on 40th.
What Sonny didn't know at that instant was that the tail was still intact. In response to Sonny's urgent radio directions, Lieutenant Vinnie Hawkes had arrived at the scene at almost the same time as Sonny and Fitz and had driven around the terminal, checking the exits. As he came back east on 40th along the south side of the building, he had seen Barbier and Mouren dash out and pull away in the cab. Hawkes shouted the news into his radio and took out after them. Sonny learned this as he finally rejoined Fitz and was wheeling his Oldsmobile across 40th Street. All they could do now was follow Hawkes's continuing reports.
The Frenchmen's cab took them to Grand Central Terminal. Hawkes had stayed close all the way. Now, as the subjects crossed 42nd and entered the giant rail-road terminal at the corner of Vanderbilt Avenue, the lieutenant parked outside the New York Convention & Visitors Bureau under the Park Avenue viaduct spanning 42nd Street and dodged traffic across to the entrance.
Barbier and Mouren behaved now as if they were unobserved. At the bottom of the ramp into the main terminal, they stopped at a cigar stand to buy early editions of the Daily News and the Herald Tribune, then ambled down another ramp toward the lower level.
They could have been a couple of old friends on their way to a train for the suburbs. They're feeling cool, Hawkes thought, a respectable distance behind —maybe we're getting lucky for a change. By now, he imagined, cars would be coming from all over, blanketing Grand Central. It occurred to Hawkes that the load of junk might well be in a locker in the terminal.
All this driving and running around tonight could have been to pass a locker key.
However, the subjects didn't go to a storage locker, or to a train. They went into the Oyster Bar, a large counter-type restaurant midway between the main and lower levels that is popular with commuters and late-nighters. Hawkes lingered outside for a few minutes, window-browsing at a locked bookstall. The Frenchmen sat down at one of the counters and ordered. At the entrance to the station's lower level a young man had materialized, lounging near a flower stall, reading a newspaper — a Fed. Okay. Hawkes ambled into the Oyster Bar.
The Frogs weren't there. Hawkes was startled only a moment. At the rear of the Oyster Bar was a glass door leading to a cocktail lounge, and from there, he remembered another exit into the terminal. That's where they went — the bastards, he swore to himself. He went into the almost empty cocktail lounge and then walked to the men's room outside. They were not in there, either.
After some time the word spread among the officers now strung throughout and around Grand Central that the Frogs had managed to slip through the net, and gloom descended. The lieutenant tried to console Sonny. "So they're lost for a while. They've ducked before. Their hotels are covered. Both of them will probably turn up there soon."
"I wonder," Sonny murmured. "Well, we've still got the other Frenchman, and Patsy, and they're the big fish, right?"
"I hope so." Egan apparently was still sitting on Jehan at that bar on 58th Street; that was a consolation. When Popeye wrapped himself around anybody, he was like a sticky snake. Patsy seemed to be under control, too. Ripa and O'Brien had reported that he had driven all the way downtown to his old neighbourhood, parked the Buick near his grandmother's house on squalid Henry Street and entered a supposedly vacant storefront where, the police knew, high-stake poker games frequently went on all night behind darkened windows curtained with burlap. Six more cars of men, including Frank Waters, had reinforced Ripa and O'Brien in the area. Patsy still was inside, or so they assumed.
"I think I'll take a run downtown and see what's happening with Patsy," he said at last to his boss.
"Okay. But keep in touch," replied Hawkes, giving his arm a friendly squeeze.
As he drove southward on the East River Drive, the only ray of hope Sonny could think of was that his partner was still on Jehan.
Eddie Egan heard about the loss of Frogs Two and Three when he made one of his periodic calls to base radio about 1 A.M., Saturday, January 13. Up to that point, the detective had been growing progressively more impatient with the assignment he had chosen. It had begun to appear that Jean Jehan had no other significant purpose that night than to try to secure a bed companion for himself, drink, and spend money. By Egan's calculations, in about three hours Frog One must have laid out seventy-five dollars on the Thunderbird bar in support of the continental charm which he was lavishing upon the hard-looking blonde. He was engaged in a persistent campaign of persuasion that she either accompany him back to his hotel or else take him to her own place. She kept playing it coy — probably figuring she had a live one in the old Frenchman, Egan had concluded early. If anything passed between the two this night, Jehan was going to pay heavily for it.
Egan had grown progressively more bored and fatigued, until he learned from base the stunning news about the escape of the other Frenchmen. His immediate reaction was that Barbier and Mouren might be headed to the Thunderbird to meet Jehan, and all at once his flagging interest in the subject at the bar heightened considerably.
Several times during the evening, the detective had switched his location in the place, alternating from his rear table to a corner of the bar, on the fringe of a small cluster of male customers who
had come in; later, he moved to another table up front, then went back to a different spot at the bar. This was all to minimize chances of Frog One happening to notice a red-haired, beefy stranger fixed in one position all the while he'd been in the Thunderbird.
Not that Jehan was paying much attention to his surroundings. Gradually, over the next hour and a half, he seemed to become lost in a fog of intoxication blended of both alcohol and desire, while the blonde played him out beautifully. During this time, Egan himself dallied with a buxom brunette of about thirty-five who had come in and sat at the bar near him, obviously trying to be picked up. His new companion, who said her name was Sonya, tried to entice him to her "place," a third-rate hotel on West 58th Street, but he put her off by insisting he couldn't leave right now, there was some guy he had to meet.
How about later? By then, it was nearly three.
Sonya said she had an "appointment" herself about three, but she ought to be free in a half hour or so. They could get together again then, and maybe think up something to do? Her mouth and eyes showed well-rehearsed hunger as she dictated her address, which he scrawled on a cocktail napkin. And then to be sure he remembered the message, she stood and leaned against him, soft belly urging his arm, fingers caressing the inside of his thigh, and her tongue fluttered quickly in his mouth.
Egan was relieved when she had gone. As detached as he thought he was, he had been aroused. He went to the telephone again. Base reported that nothing had changed: the two Frenchmen still were missing, Patsy was still staked out down at Henry Street. They did advise him that Dick Auletta now was in his car outside the Thunderbird, which Egan was glad to hear. If Jehan and the blonde happened to leave separately, he wanted Auletta to check her out.
Time crawled toward three-thirty. Egan's hopes about Barbier and Mouren dissipated. Jehan was getting too sloppy for business. Only one other couple remained in the Thunderbird aside from Egan and Jehan and his friend, and the detective was thinking he had better leave. Frog One was heavy-eyed and almost incoherent as he alternated between fumbling with his cognac and his change at the bar. Egan guessed that by now Jehan had blown close to a hundred and forty dollars in five and a half hours, and he now was seriously trying to paw the floozy next to him.
Abruptly, the blonde gathered her personal items and dumped them into her black bag, which she snapped shut with a gesture of finality. In practically one motion, in a few seconds she had shouldered her imitation leopard coat, patted the old reprobate's knee and breezed to the door and out into 58th Street. Jehan had neither the time, nor the reflexes, to utter a protest. He just sat there, stupefied.
Unable to stifle a malicious grin, Egan called for his own check. Now it was time to cut out of there, before the Frenchman could patch his senses together and get a good look at him. Putting on his coat busily as he passed Jehan, Egan stepped outside.
The rush of cold air felt good. He looked around, but the blonde was gone, nor was there any sign of Auletta, which probably meant that Dick had followed her. He walked across the street and went up a few steps into the vestibule of an old apartment building. In a few moments Jehan lurched out of the Thunderbird. He stared around, getting his bearings, then walked slowly toward 57th Street and Sixth Avenue. At the intersection he waved for a taxi, and Egan had to hustle to hail another before Frog One got out of sight.
Jehan's cab deposited him at 47th Street and Broadway at 3:50 A.M., whence he shambled to the Edison Hotel. In the hotel, Jehan picked up his room key, boarded an elevator and disappeared. The lobby was not quite deserted, for the last-ditch stay-outs were beginning to straggle in now that the bars all over the city were closing. Behind the front desk, "assisting" the regular night clerk, was a Federal agent. Egan motioned him aside and asked for the latest information. No Frenchmen, was the word, and the guys still were on Patsy downtown.
Now that Jehan had been put to bed, and the long, confusing night was over, Egan felt numb all at once, his eyes sandy and hollow. But, dammit, he had to do something!
In his pocket, his fingers closed on the crumpled paper napkin from the Thunderbird. Sonya? He toyed with the thought for a moment, before balling the napkin and tossing it onto a sand-filled receptacle for cigarette butts. No, he'd better get in his car and go help the others down at Henry Street. With a heavy sigh, he started for the exit.
Then he returned and retrieved the discarded paper napkin. You never knew: her kind of talent could prove useful one day.
C h a p t e r 1 0
Sonny Grosso and Frank Waters were among the dozen or so bleary-eyed officers staked out around 137 Henry Street. It was a dreary street, crowded on both sides by three-, four- and five-story tenements, weathered storefront shops and auto repair garages.
Detectives slouched in unmarked cars at either end of the block in which Patsy had last been seen entering the store where the gambling was going on; other cars were scattered on side streets through the area, which, Egan was reminded, was but a few blocks from Blair's Pike Slip Inn and the section where, back in November, he and his comrades had futilely chased Patsy in the Canadian Buick.
Sonny and Waters had parked on Pike Street, around the corner from Henry Street and within view of Blair's, six blocks east toward the river.
Egan climbed in with them and fell on the rear seat with a grunt. "So what else is new?" he asked hoarsely.
His partner eyed Egan. "You look terrible."
"What the hell, I been sitting in a gin mill all night, while you guys were out getting the air."
"They gave us the air, all right," Waters cracked.
"Frog One is safe and sound, huh?" asked Sonny.
"With the amount of booze he put away tonight, he oughtta sleep for a week. He's probably got a good case of blue balls, too."
"Yeah, what happened with the blonde?" Waters grinned.
"Nothing. A big zero. Poor Jehan. I came closer to getting laid than he did."
"With his blonde?" Sonny exclaimed.
"No. Some chippie tried to pick me up at the bar. A big leaguer all the way. We fooled around awhile, then she had to go take care of a customer. I was supposed to meet her at four o'clock."
Waters glanced at his wristwatch, eyes twinkling. "Well, it's almost five now. Where you been for the last hour?"
"Christ, I couldn't get it up now with a jack. Man, I'm whipped. So, is Patsy still playing cards with his paisans?"
"We hope he is," Sonny said. "He went in there, and nobody seen him come out yet."
"He could've gone out the back way, huh?"
"Who knows? All we can do is wait and see. But as long as Jehan is on ice . . . "
Egan yawned loudly.
"Why don't you go log some sack time?" Sonny suggested. "You've been out like three nights in a row."
"I oughta stick around here with you guys."
"Popeye, the area is covered," Waters said. "Sonny and me, we've had a chance to relax. Go on, grab a couple of hours. You may have to relieve us by then."
Egan thought it over sluggishly. Finally he muttered, "Okay," and heaved himself from the car. Even the click of the door as he closed it behind him gently seemed to echo in the deserted street. "I'll catch up with you guys later," he said.
In a fog, Egan drove his car not up onto either the Manhattan or Williamsburg Bridges which would have taken him home to Brooklyn but, by some reflex, back uptown on the East River Drive.
The black rim of the sky far to the east was being smudged with grey as he realized that he'd driven almost to midtown. He swerved off the three-lane drive at 42nd Street, thinking he'd have to go back downtown half a dozen blocks to the Midtown Tunnel in order to get back to Queens and Brooklyn.
But then he thought of what a drag it would be hauling out of his own bed only a few hours hence and driving into Manhattan again. Why not stay at a hotel? He turned up First Avenue, broad and almost desolate at five-thirty on a Saturday morning, past the towering United Nations. He turned left at 49th Street and, three blocks west,
found himself at the corner of Lexington Avenue waiting for a light, facing the Waldorf-Astoria. Why not the Waldorf? Could the city begrudge him a little indulgence for once?
Screw the city, anyway. He knew security officers at the Waldorf.
When Detective Eddie Egan finally crawled into a soft, crisply fresh bed in the Waldorf-Astoria about 5:45 A.M., Saturday, January 13, it is debatable whether he would have roused even had he been aware of the identity of the handsome visitor from Paris, France, sleeping somewhat fitfully in a large bed-sitting room upstairs in the same hotel. Egan had never heard of the French television star Jacques Angelvin. But they would meet four days hence, and that introduction would transform despair into sunshine for the New York Narcotics Bureau.
Egan awoke after only four hours, and he couldn't get back to sleep. His wristwatch on the night table said it was nine-forty. Slowly Egan hauled himself upright, and sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear, staring morosely at the green carpet. He reached over and called in to base. On the phone they told him the force still was zeroed in on Jehan at the Edison. Frogs Two and Three still had not returned to their hotels, and as for Patsy, he'd finally left 137 Henry Street around 7 A.M. without incident and gone to his home in Brooklyn. Sonny Grosso and Frank Waters had also gone home and would be in later.
What now? Egan went into the bathroom for a glass of water and decided to take a shower. All we can do is stick to Frog One. They've got to contact him. He shaved with the toiletry kit he had brought from his car, then dressed in his rumpled, slightly soiled shirt and suit, and left the Waldorf without checking out. He drove across 49th Street, parked in a lot near Seventh Avenue and stopped at a drugstore for orange juice and coffee. Then he walked to the Edison Hotel.
It was 12:30 P.M., and, because it was early Saturday afternoon, the theatre district was quiet and unhurried as Egan approached the main entrance of the Edison on 47th Street. He saw no one he recognized on either side of the street. Egan paused a moment at the revolving door as a man started to push through from the interior. Then he stepped into the moving glass entranceway and was just emerging into the lobby when he froze. The man who had spun past him out into the street, an elderly, distinguished-looking man in black, was Jehan: Jehan? Nerves suddenly taut, Egan looked quickly about the quiet lobby to see only a few old people reading newspapers or just daydreaming. A couple of women were getting into an elevator, and he saw two bellmen chattering near the empty front desk.